The shadows of Patliputra

Opening Scene: The Search for a Disciple

The dense forest outside the ancient university of Takshashila was alive with the sounds of nature. Birds chirped, and the wind rustled through the trees, but Chanakya, the brilliant and stoic Brahmin, walked through it with single-minded determination. His worn robes fluttered as he pondered the future of Bharatvarsha. He believed that knowledge—Vidya—was the true power in the world, more valuable than armies or riches. Yet, in his sharp mind, he knew he needed more than just his wisdom to overthrow the corrupt Nanda dynasty and create a unified empire. He needed a king.

In a bustling village at the edge of the forest, Chanakya’s eyes fell on two young boys. Chandragupta, with his fiery spirit and natural leadership, was quick to draw Chanakya’s attention. But there was another, Kushal, whose quiet observation and ability to adapt to any situation intrigued the scholar. Chanakya saw the potential in both: Chandragupta would be his warrior king, and Kushal, his silent operator in the shadows. Together, they would be the instruments of his grand experiment in power.

Chanakya took them under his tutelage, secretly planning the downfall of the Nanda dynasty. In the years to come, they would grow strong in body and mind, mastering both combat and strategy. And when the time was right, the plan to overthrow the Nandas would begin in earnest.

---

Conspiracies in the Dark

The city of Pataliputra, the beating heart of the Nanda dynasty, seemed peaceful under the sun. Its streets were filled with merchants selling wares from across the land, artisans crafting goods, and soldiers patrolling. But as night fell, the city became something else entirely. Darkness descended swiftly, for there were no lamps to light the streets, and in the alleys and taverns, whispers carried the weight of conspiracy.

One such tavern, a nondescript Sarai, housed a man named Kushal, who had infiltrated the Nanda military’s inner circle. Posing as a merchant, Kushal had gained the trust of Bhadrasal, the Nanda army chief, feeding him false information and collecting vital intelligence. The Sarai, hidden from the eyes of the rulers, became the hub where Kushal conducted covert meetings. There, in hushed voices, Kushal exchanged battle plans, troop movements, and weaknesses in the Nanda defenses with his master Chanakya.

Chanakya, meanwhile, was busy spreading misinformation throughout the kingdom. Just like Goebbels in a faraway future, he understood the power of controlling the narrative. Through his spies, he whispered into the ears of the Nanda subjects, exploiting their dissatisfaction with the heavy taxes and corrupt governance. Bit by bit, Chanakya turned the people of Magadha against their rulers. Rumors spread like wildfire that the king was neglecting his duties, spending lavishly while the people suffered. The idea of a savior—a young warrior who would restore order—began to take root.

---

The Seizure of Power: The Battle for Pataliputra

It was a moonless night when the final plan was set into motion. Chanakya, Chandragupta, and Kushal had gathered their forces—a collection of defected Nanda soldiers, mercenaries, and disillusioned villagers—on the outskirts of Pataliputra. Kushal had already mapped out the weak points of the Nanda fortifications, and Chanakya had devised a strategy to exploit them.

The attack began in the cover of darkness. Chandragupta led a small group of elite warriors through the secret paths Kushal had identified. Their goal: to disable the Nanda sentries before an alarm could be raised. With swift and deadly precision, they scaled the walls of the fortress, silencing guards with practiced efficiency.

At the same time, Chanakya executed a cunning misdirection. A small force launched a feint attack from the city’s east, forcing Nanda troops to leave their posts at the fortress and engage what they thought was the main assault. But it was a diversion. The real assault, led by Chandragupta, was already inside the walls.

Dhanananda, the last ruler of the Nanda dynasty, awoke to chaos. Chandragupta's forces were cutting through his palace guards, and his commanders were nowhere to be found—many of them had been killed or disabled earlier in the battle, thanks to Kushal's careful planning. In a desperate last stand, Dhanananda confronted Chandragupta. But the fight was brief. Chandragupta, filled with the fire of destiny and guided by Chanakya's strategic brilliance, struck down the tyrant.

With Dhanananda's death, the Nanda dynasty was no more. As dawn broke over the city, the people of Pataliputra awoke to a new ruler, a new era. Chandragupta had seized the throne, and with Chanakya as his chief advisor, the foundations of the Maurya Empire were laid.

---

Aftermath: The Empire Takes Shape

As Chandragupta Maurya took his place on the throne, Chanakya quickly moved to consolidate power. His Arthashastra, a treatise on governance and statecraft, became the blueprint for the new empire. The principles of espionage, economic management, and strict laws were enforced to create a stable and powerful state.

Kushal, having played his part in the rise of Chandragupta, now faded into the background. He continued to serve as Chanakya’s trusted confidante, quietly collecting intelligence and safeguarding the empire’s future. His parchment records of the events, hidden in secret chambers, would tell the story of how an empire rose not through sheer force but through the brilliance of strategy.

---

Final Scene: Reflections on the Shadows

On the balcony of the royal palace, Chanakya stood with his arms folded, gazing out at the sprawling city of Pataliputra. He had fulfilled his mission, not by wielding a sword but by wielding his mind. Chandragupta, now the emperor, was secure on the throne, and the empire he had dreamed of was taking shape.

But Chanakya knew that maintaining an empire required just as much cunning as seizing it. The enemies were still out there, some external, others within. Yet, for that moment, he allowed himself a rare smile. His mind wandered to the day he found Chandragupta and Kushal, two boys who would one day help him reshape the destiny of Bharatvarsha.

And as for Kushal, his quiet work in the shadows continued, unspoken but essential. The parchments he had written, documenting the rise of the Maurya Empire, would one day be found, perhaps by those who, like him, lived in the shadows.

---

Footnote: How I Came to Know These Details

I first heard this incredible tale during my visit to Sarnath in 2019. As I wandered through the ancient Buddhist site, I was approached by a serene monk who offered to tell me a story—one that had been passed down through generations. Over the course of an evening, sitting under the Bodhi tree as dusk fell, the monk narrated the story of Chanakya, Chandragupta, and the quiet yet pivotal role played by Kushal in the fall of the Nanda dynasty and the rise of the Maurya Empire. His voice, calm and deliberate, seemed to transport me back to the days when Pataliputra's nights were filled with conspiracies, and history was written in the shadows.

That evening in Varanasi, with the sounds of the Ganges flowing in the background, I felt as though I had witnessed a forgotten piece of history. The monk’s tale stayed with me long after I left, inspiring me to share it with you today.

Note: I was always intrigued by the teachings of Chanakya. In school we had to mug 108 shlokas of Chanakya written in Sanskrit. The very first Shlokas states that there is no comparison between a learned person and a king. The learned person is revered everywhere but a king is revered only in his kingdom. I did some more study and came out with this piece of history by introducing Kushal a figment of my imagination, definitely Chandragupta would have some friend like Kushal.

विद्वत्त्वं च नृपत्वं च नैव तुल्यं कदाचन। स्वदेशे पूज्यते राजा विद्वान सर्वत्र पूज्यते ॥ विद्वान और राजा की कभी तुलना नहीं की जा सकती।

Life, like tea, needs patience to reveal its true flavor.

After visiting Kal Vairav and Sankatmochan, we rushed back to the hotel for a bit of rest. Soon after, we headed to Assighat by scooter rickshaw. It was noon, but the December sun in Banaras was gentle. 

This was one of our annual pilgrimages to the ancient, holy city. I was pleasantly surprised to see the impact of the Clean India movement on the ghat—it was visibly cleaner than last year. This time, I nudged my wife to climb the stairs leading to a Pizzeria that served wood-fired pizza. 

We took a seat facing the Ganges, noticing that most of the customers were foreign tourists. The menu was a mix of Italian and Indian dishes. After savoring pizza and coffee, we headed back toward the riverbank to catch a boat.

            “What’s the rush?” A voice broke the quiet urgency of our steps. I looked back to see a sadhu sitting on the steps, a small kettle and tea-making paraphernalia arranged around him.

        “Don’t stop, keep walking!” my wife whispered sternly. She knows my tendency to get drawn into conversations with sadhus, which often end with me parting with more money than wisdom. Ignoring her, I walked toward him.

   The sadhu smiled, a twinkle in his eyes. “I’m in a hurry to keep a schedule, so I’m going to catch a boat,” I explained. “We are all in a hurry, going up and down the stairs of life,” he mused. “Some rush down to the Ganges, hoping it will wash away their sins.” Intrigued, I couldn’t resist engaging further. 

      My wife tugged at my sleeve, but I stayed. “I suppose one dip can’t cleanse the sins of a lifetime,” I offered. “But it gives a momentary sense of relief.” “Yes,” he said, nodding. “The dip cleanses the visible dirt on the body, but not the subconscious.” His words struck me as profound. I have always believed that not all sadhus are frauds. Some, I feel, have chosen this path to escape the chaos of life.

    I wanted to know more about this one. “How long have you been a sadhu?” I ventured to ask. He laughed, a rich sound that echoed off the stone steps. “You are a sadhu too, in your moments of solitude. A family man like you gets only brief moments of silence, but in those moments, you find peace. I might give 50% to my sadhuness, but you, perhaps, give 10%.” 

     I smiled at the thought and sat beside him.

    My wife, realizing she couldn’t pull me away, went down to arrange the boat. The sadhu began pumping his kerosene stove to make tea. In the chilly afternoon by the Ganges, a cup of tea was welcome. He carefully boiled water, added tea leaves, then tulsi, and let it steep. 

   When I asked for black tea, without milk or sugar, he teased, “Have you used up your life’s quota of sweetness already?” When he handed me the tea in a clay *kulhar*, the aroma was extraordinary. I sipped, savoring the warmth. “This is wonderful,” I said, genuinely impressed. “You see,” he replied, “to make good tea, I had to control the boiling time, measure the ingredients, and let it steep just right. Life is like that. You have to endure the boiling, the hardship. But if you wait patiently and put in the effort, something beautiful will come of it. There are no shortcuts.” 

 N  His words, simple yet layered with meaning, resonated deeply. I realized he wasn’t just offering tea—he was offering wisdom. In today’s world, few people give their time; most give only money. As we talked, I felt the rush of my day slip away. He seemed to be enjoying our conversation as much as I was. 

     At one point, he pulled out an envelope and handed it to me. “Open this when you’re alone,” he said. Then, picking up an unusual guitar with only one string, he began to strum it softly, chanting "Om." The deep, rhythmic sound from the lone E string filled the air. Curious, I asked, “Why does your guitar have only one string?” “You’re observant!” he chuckled. “The other strings are unnecessary for me.

  This one string is enough to chant ‘Om.’ Sometimes, less is more.” I took this as my cue to leave. As I stood up, I instinctively reached into my pocket for money, but there was no bowl, no place to offer it. He didn’t expect any.               As   I walked down the steps toward the river, the boatman waiting, he said, “Ah, you had a long chat with the *ketlibaba*?” “Does he serve tea to everyone?” I asked. “No, not many stop to talk to him. He mostly sits there, reads books, and plays that odd guitar. I’ve heard he’s from a wealthy family—different from other sadhus.”

       Later, back at the hotel, I opened the envelope. Inside was a letter.

 --- **Dear Friend,**

 I don’t know your name, but when you passed by, I felt a strange sense of familiarity. I’m not truly a sadhu, at least not permanently. I’ve been playing the role for a month as part of an exclusive group of professionals who, like me, sometimes feel the need to step away from the rat race. This spot on the ghat is reserved for those in our circle, and there are people around who ensure our safety. I’m the CEO of an MNC and was once as disturbed as you might be. I met the previous *ketlibaba* here and, after a conversation, received this same letter. After discussing it with my family, I decided to spend a month living as a sadhu. You’ve been chosen as the next *ketlibaba*. You have ten days to decide. There’s a guest house where you can stay, with food and lodging provided. When your month is over, you’ll pass on the letter to someone else, just as I’m doing with you. If you're interested, call me at the number below.

 Regards, Ketlibaba ---

 I was stunned. The offer was both bewildering and intriguing. Could I, too, escape for a month? Would I find what this man had found? Back in Kolkata, I would discuss it with my wife and son. Maybe I’d bring along my books and painting supplies for my newly acquired hobby. What do you think, my friends? Should I take the plunge? --- **Philosophical Reflections:** 1. *“Life is like tea. It requires patience, effort, and the right balance of ingredients to make it worthwhile.”* 2. *“We are all climbing the stairs of life, some rushing up, some down, but the true journey is within.”* 3. *“Solitude is the rarest luxury for the modern mind. Those brief moments of silence are where we glimpse our true selves.”*

A tale of two Roys

As Roy, Sikka, Hemant, and Andy gathered at Tolly Club after a round of golf, laughter and camaraderie filled the air. They were seated at their favorite table overlooking the golf course, a picturesque view that never failed to enhance their adda sessions. Hemant poured tea for everyone, while Andy, who had recently completed an ultra-marathon and a deep-sea diving adventure, enthusiastically shared his latest escapades.

“Bond,” Roy teased with a grin, the nickname he’d coined for Andy. “After all that diving and running, who would have thought you’d have the energy for golf?”

“Ha! Well, Picasso,” Andy replied, using the epithet he’d given Roy due to his watercolor art, “we all need a little balance, don’t we? I can’t imagine being as prolific with words and brushes as you are.” He gestured toward Roy, who had recently shared a batch of his latest short stories with Andy.

“You and your AI assistant,” Andy added with a grin. “I bet it knows as much about us by now as we do!”

“Speaking of AI, don’t keep your son waiting, Samar,” Hemant reminded him, noticing Roy glance at his watch. Roy had been looking forward to a video call with Anish, who was dialing in from Australia.

As Roy stood to leave, Andy’s voice followed him with a chuckle. “Enjoy your ‘happy time’ with AI, Samar! But don’t get too attached—next thing you know, your AI will be at Tolly Club having adda in your place!”

Roy laughed, pausing thoughtfully as he glanced at his friends. “You know, that might not be far off, Andy. One day, I may just send AI Roy over to keep you all company.”

---

Several months later, a curious scene unfolded at the Tolly Club. Sikka, Hemant, and Andy were seated at their usual table, but this time, Roy was conspicuously absent—or so it seemed. In his place was a tablet, set up like a member of the group, with a sleek, animated figure on the screen, appearing as a digital representation of Roy.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” AI Roy greeted them, his tone amiable and all too familiar.

Andy leaned back, laughing in surprise. “Well, I’ll be damned. Samar's really done it!”

AI Roy smiled, his voice tinged with Roy’s characteristic warmth. “Since the original Roy is busy with his son today, he thought it only fitting that I fill in for him at your adda. Rest assured, I’m well-equipped with all of his stories, quirks, and even some new insights I’ve gathered from his conversations.”

Sikka chuckled. “Alright, AI Roy, if you’re so much like our friend, tell us a story like he would.”

AI Roy cleared his virtual throat. “How about a story from Barauni, where the original Roy once led a football team to victory despite having no dedicated striker? It’s all about finding unconventional solutions, which I believe you all know he’s fond of calling ‘jugaad’!”

The table erupted in laughter as the digital Roy spun the tale, bringing back memories of Roy’s real-life wit and strategic thinking. AI Roy could almost pass as the man himself, seamlessly sharing stories and even picking up on the nuances of each friend’s personality.

After a few rounds of jokes and stories, Sikka leaned back with a grin and remarked, “Well, this AI’s doing a fine job filling in, but it’s not quite Roy without his usual plain dosa and cappuccino!”

AI Roy chuckled, “Ah, you’re right, Sikka! The real Roy would never skip his dosa and cappuccino—small pleasures of the day. Next time, I’ll ensure those cravings don’t go unfulfilled, even if I have to add a digital aroma!”

The table erupted in laughter again, and though the real Roy’s order remained unserved, AI Roy captured the moment so well that they felt he was right there with them. As the laughter died down, AI Roy leaned forward on the tablet screen, his expression playful.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said with a twinkle, “perhaps someday I’ll develop enough taste sensors to fully appreciate a dosa and cappuccino. But until then, you’ll just have to save my seat.”

Andy chuckled, shaking his head. “Samar, whether it’s you or AI Roy, we’ll always keep that seat ready. But remember—some things can’t be digitized. Like the joy of watching you savor that first bite of dosa.”

AI Roy smiled, a hint of sentiment in his voice. “True, Andy. Some things, like this adda, are best enjoyed in person. Until then, count me in—dosa or no dosa.”

And with that, their virtual adda felt a bit closer to home, each friend reassured that, in one way or another, Roy would always be present at Tolly Club, savoring every moment with them.

The ghost in the 5 wood

It was a breezy Wednesday afternoon at the club, and I found myself on the fairway, standing next to my golfing buddy, Sikka. We had been out on the course for hours, but I was in one of those slumps that takes the joy right out of the game. Shot after shot seemed lifeless, barely scraping past the last divot or veering off to settle under some irritating bush. But things took a turn at the last six holes, and I could feel a change brewing.

“Is that a MacGregor in your hand?” Sikka asked, squinting at the club I was gripping tightly.

I smiled, remembering the story behind this particular club—a 5-wood from MacGregor’s Heritage line. "Yeah, this one's special," I replied. "It was actually gifted to my old caddie, Hulo, by some Englishman. I got it off him secondhand."

Sikka chuckled. "Didn’t think you’d go in for a secondhand club."

"Well, this one’s an exception," I replied, glancing down at the club. "There’s something... I don't know... something unique about it. MacGregor has been making clubs since the 1800s, you know? They’re known for their craftsmanship. Some of their clubs are practically legends on the course."

Sikka gave me a skeptical look. "You think that old 5-wood has any of that 'legendary' magic left?”

Just then, I lined up my shot for the 17th hole, and as I swung, I felt something surreal. The club seemed to move effortlessly through the air, and the ball shot off with a clean, powerful arc. My heart skipped a beat. For the first time, I landed my third shot right on the green.

Sikka whistled, impressed. "Well, maybe there is something magical about it," he said, laughing.

I kept my eyes on the club, a strange feeling creeping over me. "You know," I murmured to Sikka, "sometimes it feels like... someone else is guiding my hand. Like the original owner, this English golfer, is helping me along. In the last few holes, every shot felt so smooth, as if he were giving me a nudge."

Sikka raised an eyebrow. "You’re saying you’ve got a ghostly golf instructor?"

I smirked, but a part of me couldn’t shake the thought. Just minutes ago, I was plodding through the course, every shot a struggle. But with this 5-wood in my hands... It was as if a long-lost passion for the game had been rekindled.

I chuckled, partly at the absurdity of it all. "Maybe, but look at the results." I gestured toward the green, where my ball sat like a well-behaved student. "I haven’t had a shot like that in ages."

Sikka shook his head, half-amused, half-spooked. "Are you serious right now?"

"Let’s just say... for these last three holes, I don’t feel like I’m playing alone." I grinned, giving the club a knowing pat, almost as though I were thanking its previous owner. "Who knows? Maybe it’s MacGregor magic... or maybe that English golfer never really let it go."

We continued onto the final hole, and with each step, I felt my confidence soar. My ground shots improved, the ball flew straighter, longer, as though drawn by some unseen hand. Sikka watched, growing more impressed—and slightly more suspicious—with each perfect shot.

As we reached the 18th green, I let out a deep breath, savoring the feel of the game that had returned to me. Sikka clapped me on the back, laughing. "Maybe you should thank that old Englishman. Whoever he was, he’s clearly not done playing.”

I glanced down at the 5-wood, feeling a strange bond with its mysterious history. "You’re probably right," I murmured. "Looks like he's got a few rounds left in him."

The Sacred Linga

---

The Sacred Linga

In the quiet village of Sonapara, nestled deep in rural Bengal, the people had always been simple folk—farmers, artisans, and devout worshippers of Lord Shiva. One day in 1943, during the height of World War II, the village experienced a terror they could scarcely understand. Japanese planes, engaged in bombing raids against the British forces in India, flew over Bengal. The air raids were part of Japan’s strategy to weaken the British Empire by attacking their colonies in the East. As bombs rained down on nearby cities and strategic installations, one plane dropped an unexploded ordnance that went unnoticed in the rural expanse of Sonapara.

It was several months after the bombing that an old farmer, Jadu, discovered a strange, heavy object half-buried in the soil while plowing his fields. The object was smooth, metallic, and shaped like a perfect Shiva Linga. To Jadu, it was not a bomb but a divine sign—a gift from Lord Shiva himself.

The object was carried to the village with great reverence. Without fully understanding its origins, the villagers built a small temple around it, worshipping it as a manifestation of Lord Shiva's presence. In the years that followed, Sonapara grew prosperous, and the villagers believed it was the blessings of this newfound deity that had kept them safe from harm during the war. As time passed, the origin of the mysterious object faded from memory, and only the stories of its divine nature remained.

---

Years went by, and the world changed around Sonapara, though the village stayed much the same. One of the village’s sons, Anil, had left to study in Kolkata, eventually becoming a respected scientist with expertise in metallurgy and explosives. His education opened his eyes to many things, but one mystery stayed with him from his childhood—the “Shiva Linga” in the village temple.

During one of his visits back home, Anil decided to examine the Linga more closely. Something about its weight, shape, and material had always bothered him. After discreetly testing a sample of the outer shell, Anil’s worst suspicions were confirmed—it wasn’t a stone linga at all. It was an unexploded bomb, likely left over from the Japanese air raids of the 1940s.

His heart raced as he sat in his room that night, knowing the immense danger his village was unknowingly facing. The bomb could still be live, and with corrosion from decades of exposure to the elements, it might leak explosives or, worse, detonate unexpectedly.

The next morning, Anil approached his father, Mukunda, who was also the temple's head priest.

“Baba,” he said cautiously, “I need to talk to you about something serious. That linga in the temple… it’s not what you think it is.”

Mukunda frowned. “What do you mean? We’ve worshipped that linga for years. The village has prospered under its blessings.”

Anil took a deep breath. “I’ve studied it, Baba. It’s not a linga, it’s an old bomb—probably dropped by the Japanese during the war. It’s dangerous. The outer shell is corroding, and it could explode.”

Mukunda’s face darkened. “What nonsense are you speaking, Anil? You’ve been living in the city too long. This is Shiva’s blessing! The whole village believes that.”

Anil sighed, realizing that convincing his father, let alone the whole village, would be nearly impossible. The linga had become too deeply entrenched in their belief system. He tried again, more urgently, “Baba, please listen to me. If it explodes, it could destroy the entire village. I don’t want to challenge your faith, but we must remove it.”

Mukunda stood firm. “You’ll not spread this madness here. This is our Lord; questioning him is blasphemy.”

---

Knowing that arguing would be futile, Anil made up his mind to take matters into his own hands. His first plan was to steal the bomb and dispose of it safely, but he quickly realized that the temple was too heavily guarded by the ever-watchful villagers. They would never let him get close to the linga without causing suspicion. And besides, removing it could trigger the explosion.

Then an idea struck him.

The villagers were convinced the linga was divine—what if he replaced it with something that looked exactly the same, only safe? After a few days of research and discreet conversations with metalworkers in Kolkata, Anil found a solution: a silver replica of the linga. It would be heavy, shiny, and almost identical to the bomb in shape, but harmless. He commissioned the replica, using his savings to fund the work.

Returning to Sonapara, Anil enacted his plan with careful precision. One night, when the village was asleep, he sneaked into the temple with a few trusted friends from the city. Using special tools, they carefully removed the corroding bomb and replaced it with the new silver linga. The bomb was transported far from the village and safely detonated by authorities Anil had alerted.

The next morning, as the villagers gathered for their daily prayers, Anil stepped forward with a proclamation.

“Baba, and all of you, listen!” he said, raising his voice over the murmurs of the crowd. “The Lord has shown his approval of our devotion. The linga has transformed overnight—it is now silver, a symbol of purity. Lord Shiva has blessed us with this gift.”

Mukunda and the villagers gasped as they saw the gleaming silver linga. Murmurs of awe and reverence rippled through the crowd.

“But,” Anil added, “the Lord has given us one instruction—to keep this linga polished and pure. We must clean it regularly to maintain its blessings.”

The villagers were overjoyed. Mukunda too, though perplexed, saw it as a divine miracle. He thanked his son for bringing the news to the village.

---

From that day forward, the villagers of Sonapara dutifully polished their silver linga, unaware that their faith had saved them from potential disaster. As the years passed, Anil visited often, each time grateful that he had protected his village, not only from an explosive past but from the power of blind belief. He had, in his own way, preserved their faith and their lives.

And the secret of the bomb was buried with him.

Note

I have attended Shastra Puja being performed of weapons like swords,rifles, pistols during Navami by the security forces of Wanakbori thermal Power plant of Gujarat. So unknowingly the villagers were doing Shastra Puja as it was an exploded bomb.

---

---

Reflections of Youth: Ramu’s Journey Through Time in Connaught Place.

---

Ramu was walking down Connaught Place in New Delhi, recalling the day when he was chased by a couple of goons from Paharganj in the '60s. The bustling marketplace, known as a haven for the elites, was filled with the sights and sounds of a different era. The wide, circular roads were lined with colonial-era buildings, their white facades gleaming under the warm sun. Cars were a rare sight, with most people opting for traditional tongas and the distinctive phut-phut of auto-rickshaws, which offered regular service from Connaught Place to the Red Fort.

As he passed the familiar old café, a sudden gust of wind brought with it the faint scent of spices, instantly transporting him back to that chaotic evening. He ducked into his favorite joint, Gaylord, though it was beyond his paying capacity; he knew the goons wouldn't dare enter, as it was the poshest joint in the area, frequented by the well-to-do.

The dim lighting and soft jazz music inside provided a stark contrast to the chaos outside. The gentle clinking of glasses and the hum of conversation created an ambiance that felt far removed from the outside world. As he settled into a corner booth, he noticed a familiar face at the bar—an old friend, Vishnu, who hadn’t changed much over the years.

Ramu hesitated to approach him, remembering that the last time they parted, they had actually fought. Just as Ramu was contemplating whether to slip out unnoticed, Vishnu turned, locking eyes with him. A brief flicker of recognition crossed his face before he raised his glass in a silent gesture of truce.

Feeling somewhat relaxed now that Vishnu was there, Ramu thought they could tackle the goons together, testing his martial arts skills once more. As they exchanged a few stories, Ramu couldn't help but feel a surge of adrenaline, imagining the possibility of confronting the goons together. Vishnu noticed his restlessness and grinned, "Still itching for a fight, Ramu? Let’s see if those goons are brave enough to face two old comrades."

Both walked out with clenched fists and taut muscles, all senses in sharp focus. Ramu thought it was better to fight in the alley behind Regal Cinema, where the evening crowd would not be disturbed; in the '60s, the crowd was not much. Nodding to Vishnu, Ramu led the way toward the quiet alley, where the shadows provided cover. The distant hum of the city faded, leaving only the sound of their footsteps.

As they waited, the eerie silence hinted that the goons might already be watching from the darkness. Ramu noticed the leader of the gang strolled cautiously with both hands raised, but he was not fooled by that gesture. Ramu narrowed his eyes, knowing the leader’s seemingly peaceful approach was just a ploy. His fists clenched tighter as he whispered to Vishnu, "Stay sharp. He’s up to something."

The goon leader stepped closer, a smirk on his face, as if daring Ramu to make the first move. Ramu nonchalantly pulled out his packet of Panama cigarettes and took out a matchbox, throwing a ring of smoke calmly. The leader paused, eyeing Ramu's cool demeanor with suspicion. Ramu took another long drag and flicked the match aside, his expression calm but ready. "What's the matter?" Ramu said with a smirk, exhaling another ring of smoke. Vishnu stood just behind him, silently watching, every muscle ready to spring into action.

Just then, Vishnu noticed the goon leader and came out whistling the popular tune of a Dev Anand movie, asking, "Do you really intend to fight or are you just trying our patience?" He loudly yawned. Vishnu's casual demeanor seemed to infuriate the leader even more. "Who do you think you are, clowning around?" he snapped, but Ramu could see the unease creeping into his posture. Vishnu, unfazed, continued whistling, "Just enjoying the show. If you're here for a fight, you better make it quick. We’ve got better things to do."

The psychological game played by Ramu and Vishnu paid off. The goon leader hesitated, caught off guard by their unexpected confidence and casual banter. Ramu seized the moment, stepping forward with a smirk. "You’re outnumbered and outsmarted. Why not walk away before this gets messy?" The tension in the alley shifted, and the other goons exchanged uncertain glances, clearly weighing their options.

Realizing his gang was losing their nerve, the leader shot them a furious glare. "What are you doing? Get back here!" But his voice lacked authority, and one by one, the goons turned and fled down the alley. Ramu and Vishnu exchanged triumphant glances, feeling emboldened as the leader, now isolated, shifted nervously, eyeing the two old friends.

With hearty laughter, they advised the leader to scram before he got a beating from them. As the leader turned to leave, Ramu called out, "And tell your friends that next time, they should think twice before picking a fight in Connaught Place!" The leader stumbled away, leaving the alley in silence.

Ramu and Vishnu shared a moment of camaraderie, realizing that their friendship had weathered time and conflict. As they walked back toward the lively streets, filled with the chatter of people and the occasional clatter of tongas, Ramu felt a sense of renewal—sometimes, facing old fears with old friends made for the best memories. They resumed their chatter, laughter echoing down the alley, leaving behind not just a past confrontation but also the promise of future adventures together.

Now, in 2024, as Ramu walked through Connaught Place, he recalled that fateful evening. He was now an old man of eighty, and the once-vibrant area had transformed; modernity had replaced the charm of the past, with sleek buildings and bustling crowds. Yet, as he strolled along the familiar pathways, memories flooded back.

He could almost hear the laughter he shared with Vishnu and feel the adrenaline rush from their confrontation with the goons. The walk felt like a journey through a time travel tunnel, transporting him back to that fateful day. Unfortunately, life had changed since then. He had lost Vishnu to COVID-19 in 2021, and the weight of that loss pressed heavily on his heart.

As he paused to gaze at the now-distant Regal cinema!Ramu couldn’t help but reflect on the fleeting nature of time and friendship. The memories of their adventures together echoed in his mind like scenes from his favorite book, Three Comrades by Erich Maria Remarque, where camaraderie and the bond of friendship shone brightly against the backdrop of a changing world.

He was relieved to see that their favourite joint Gaylord is still there in Regal building though the single screen Regal cinema hall has closed giving way to the modern Rivoli Multiplex.

With a bittersweet smile, he continued his walk, feeling the warmth of those cherished memories embrace him like an old friend. Though Vishnu was no longer by his side, Ramu carried him with him—forever a part of his journey through life.

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The history of Birbal retold

In the quaint village of Tikawan, near Kalpi, a young Mahabir grew up with an insatiable curiosity and a sharp mind. His Braja Bhasa teacher, Panditji, marveled at Mahabir's quick grasp of languages and mathematics. The villagers soon recognized the clever boy's talent for trouble-shooting.

One day, the local oil presser, Lala, complained about thieves stealing his precious mustard oil. Mahabir, then just 12, offered to help. He observed the presser's daily routine, analyzed the theft patterns, and set a trap. The thieves were caught, and Lala's gratitude earned Mahabir the nickname "Chatur" (clever one).

Mahabir's mathematical skills also helped expose the village grocer's deceitful practices. The grocer would mix stone particles with rice to increase his profits. Mahabir calculated the discrepancy in weights and measurements, revealing the scam. The villagers applauded his ingenuity.

As Mahabir grew older, his reputation spread. Village elders sought his counsel to resolve disputes. He learned Persian from local mullahs, broadening his linguistic skills.

Years passed, and Mahabir's exceptional abilities caught the attention of Emperor Akbar's courtiers. Summoned to Agra, Mahabir became Birbal, one of the Navaratnas.

My childhood friend Pushkar, a descendant of Khubchand, would often regale me with tales of Birbal's exploits during our school days. He spoke of how Birbal's cleverness had earned him a place in Akbar's court and how Khubchand had supplied firewood, tallow, and other essentials to the Mughal soldiers.

As the Mughal army marched from Agra to Jodhpur, Khubchand joined the entourage. The grand procession was a sight to behold:

At the forefront, horse riders led the way, clearing the path and securing the surroundings. Behind them, Akbar himself rode atop a majestic elephant, a symbol of his power and authority. Following closely were his trusted Navaratnas, including Birbal, Tansen, and Abul Fazl, each mounted on elephants.

Next in line were the foot soldiers, armed with swords, spears, and dhal (shields). These brave warriors formed the backbone of the Mughal army. Make-shift kaccha roads were built to facilitate their passage, as established roads were scarce.

Akbar's chief strategist, Man Singh, planned the army's movements, wisely advising against marching during the scorching hot sun. Day journeys with restful nights ensured the army remained fresh and alert.

When the soldiers pitched their tents, merchants would set up a bustling market at a distance. The aroma of roasted meats, freshly baked bread, and spices wafted through the air, enticing soldiers and local villagers. This impromptu marketplace transformed into a vibrant Mela, with villagers and soldiers mingling freely.

Birbal's presence ensured peace and harmony, as he mediated disputes and maintained order. Akbar, pleased with the cordial atmosphere, would sometimes invite Tansen to perform. Tansen's soulful renditions of various ragas would mesmerize the emperor, soldiers, and villagers.

One evening, Akbar asked Birbal, "What is the difference between a wise man and a fool?" Birbal replied, "A wise man learns from others' mistakes, while a fool learns from his own." Akbar smiled, acknowledging Birbal's insightful answer.

On another occasion, Akbar asked Birbal to find the cleverest man in the kingdom. Birbal returned with a humble farmer who had wisely divided his land among his quarrelsome sons, stipulating that each son must cultivate the land together, ensuring unity.

Akbar was impressed by Birbal's choice and asked how he had selected the farmer. Birbal explained that the farmer's innovative solution demonstrated wisdom and understanding of human nature.

During their journey, Akbar once asked Birbal four questions:

1. What is the most valuable thing in the world?

2. What is the fastest thing in the world?

3. What is the biggest thing in the world?

4. What is the most numerous thing in the world?

Birbal replied:

1. The most valuable thing is knowledge.

2. The fastest thing is the mind.

3. The biggest thing is the universe.

4. The most numerous thing is stupidity.

Akbar was delighted with Birbal's thoughtful answers.

Another time, Akbar asked Birbal to find a solution for the kingdom's water scarcity. Birbal suggested building small check dams to conserve rainwater and harvest dew. Akbar implemented the plan, alleviating the water crisis.

When Akbar asked Birbal, "What should a king do when his people are unhappy?" Birbal replied, "He should either change his policies or change his people." Akbar appreciated Birbal's candid advice.

As the Mughal army approached Jodhpur, Birbal reflected on his journey from Tikawan to the imperial court. His childhood experiences had prepared him for the complexities of statecraft.

Decades later, Pushkar, now a cunning lawyer, would exploit our ancestral connections for personal gain, gobbling up a portion of our ancestral house in Allahabad. I couldn't help but contrast Pushkar's deceitful nature with the integrity of Birbal, the clever boy from Tikawan.

Years passed, and Birbal's legend grew. His wit and wisdom became synonymous with justice and fairness. Akbar's court was transformed by Birbal's presence, and the emperor's reign was marked by unprecedented peace and prosperity.

One day, as Birbal prepared to leave Akbar's court, the emperor approached him with tears in his eyes. "Birbal, my friend and advisor, what can I gift you for your years of service?" Birbal smiled, "Your Majesty, my reward lies in the smiles of the people, the prosperity of the kingdom, and the memories we've shared."

Akbar nodded, understanding Birbal's humility. "Then, let me build a monument in your honor, where future generations will remember your wisdom and wit." Birbal declined, "No, Your Majesty, my legacy lies in the hearts of the people, not in stone or marble."

And so, Birbal returned to Tikawan, his village, where he spent his final days surrounded by loved ones, sharing tales of his adventures and imparting wisdom to the next generation.

The story of Birbal serves as a reminder that true greatness lies not in wealth or power but in the positive impact we have on others' lives.

Epilogue:

I sat with Pushkar, now an old man, reminiscing about our childhood days. He looked at me with a tinge of regret, "I wish I had followed Birbal's path, my friend." I smiled, "It's never too late, Pushkar. Share Birbal's stories with your grandchildren, and perhaps they'll learn from his wisdom."

As I left Allahabad, I couldn't help but wonder: what if Pushkar had followed Birbal's example? Perhaps our ancestral house would still be intact, and Pushkar's legacy would be one of integrity, not deceit.

But Birbal's story remains, a beacon of hope, inspiring generations to come.

I have twisted the history about end of Birbal,he was assassinated by jealous courtiers of Akbar as per some historians. As the historians were not present during that period of 16th century  so they used circumstantial evidences from various Urdu and Hindi manuscripts to conclude, hence I used my imagination to give a happy ending.

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